The Emperor's Artwork
by Mouse
Summary: A short tale set during the rise of the Emperor. A woman's brief encounter with an enigmatic warlord ultimately destroys her.


**||| The Emperor's Artwork |||**  
  
  
I had never decided if it was blue or grey, the outer court hallway of the Imperial Palace, the few times that I had seen it. And as I looked at it again, it still seemed to shift from one to the other, a wave-like texture. A trick of the carefully scattered lighting, no doubt, and the never-ending appearance of the wrap-around corridor. Wrapping around the outer court and the inner chambers, that is.  
  
Either way, blue or grey, it didn't much matter. Both blended nicely with my mood.  
  
Officially, this was where you waited to meet with the Emperor or one of the important dignitaries who were inside the loop created by the hallway. Therefore officially, I had no reason to be there. But decorative females were often seen flitting about from one place to another in the Courts, and I had not yet been stopped or questioned when I aimlessly roamed the corridor, searching for . . . I don't know what. Inner peace? Solace? An answer to something?  
  
I rounded a gentle bend in the passageway and slowed my footsteps. There was a man standing down a way; an officer, I thought, though his back was to me and I may have been wrong. A youngish one, fairly tall, studying a statuette I had passed earlier. In curiosity, I drew closer. The strange lighting and oceanic stonework were throwing a blue cast on the skin that was visible: his neck, above the military collar and below sleek, almost glossy dark hair; and a hand, resting at his side, fingertips tapping pensively against his leg.  
  
The emptiness of the corridor-- or perhaps the emptiness inside me-- had grown lonely, and I was feeling idle, so I stepped up beside him, fixing my gaze on the statue. "An interesting piece," I commented, quietly, as to not disturb the intimidating aura of solemnity that seemed to fill the hall. "Quite different from his other work. They say it was the only piece he made while sober."  
  
A lull; I thought for a moment that he wasn't going to answer. Then-- "I've often wondered which of the works it is that provides true insight into the artist," he said. "Those which made while he was intoxicated, with nothing holding him back. Or this--" I caught a motion out of the corner of my eyes, a gesture. "The one sculpture done with his mind lucid."  
  
And I was captured. Such a voice; like cool running water on the brink of turning to ice, measured and precise, not a breath wasted. Quite clearly pronounced words, and despite an mysterious lingering on the 'n's, no accent that I could detect. An officer, almost certainly, and he carried the authority well. Not smugly or pompously, but a matter-of-fact command that he was speaking and you must listen.  
  
"Have you studied art?" he asked into my thoughts.  
  
I could feel his eyes boring into me, but was strangely loathe to look up into his face, my eyes instead caressing the sculpture, features twisting in accordance with the wistful tug at my heart. "My father was an art historian," I clarified, longing to reach out and touch the statuette but fearful that it would trigger an alarm. "I grew up with it."  
  
Behind it would have been more accurate. I could have sprouted Twi'lek headtails and a third leg and my father wouldn't have even noticed. A speck of dust dropped onto the corner of a Corellian flame miniature and he could spot it from the next room.  
  
"Art is the key to civilization," the officer was saying now, his voice turning lukewarm, breathy. "Shared by all cultures yet unique to each."  
  
I didn't follow, and I wasn't particularly interested, but I nodded, offering, "My father always said if you could get inside a man's art, you could get inside his head." And I hadn't understood his statements either.  
  
"A man of great aptitude, your father," the Imperial said softly, taking a thoughtful pause. "What was his name?"  
  
I hesitated, though I wasn't quite sure why. "Aldayon Y'muan." I found my eyes had wandered from the statue while we were conversing, and were staring vacantly into the wall. I blinked, wondering if he often had that effect on people.  
  
"And yours?"  
  
My gaze travelled up, tracing the arch of the ceiling. "Binti," I told him, barely above a whisper. It was almost like a nudge, then; though I knew that was quite impossible, since I was positive he had never shifted an inch. But still, I found myself, almost unwillingly, turning to face him.  
  
I froze.  
  
His skin didn't look blue because of the lighting and the colour of the walls. It was blue.  
  
But of course, I really didn't notice that until I stopped gaping at the glowing red eyes.  
  
Warlord Thrawn. The Emperor's alien pet, they called him, brought from the Unknown Regions to Imperial Center by Captain Parck, and promptly sent back out there on patrol after training. There were rumours about him, plenty of rumours; whispers of tactical genius, of ruthlessness, of alien single-mindedness. Stories that said he had been exiled by his own people, onto a planet with no inhabitants, no technology, to prevent him from . . . doing what?  
  
There was no way he could have missed my reaction; in fact, I was certain he had been expecting it. But he didn't even twitch. "Binti," he repeated pleasantly, those famously disconcerting eyes glittering. "And what is it you do here in the Palace, Binti?"  
  
"I--" I paused, frowning slightly. What did I do here? I was part of the entourage. I sometimes helped the dancers get ready, but was never called upon myself to dance or entertain. Occasionally I accompanied a minor Moff or Governor who needed a dinner companion. Usually I simply sat among the flocks of concubines and other bits of ornamental fluff, looking pretty. "I don't--do anything, really," I faltered lamely, shying away from his gaze. "Not anything important, anyway."  
  
"You're a decoration, in other words?" At my abashed nod, he lifted one eyebrow. "Yet you say you're not important. Were we not just discussing the significance of art?"  
  
He extended a hand, hovering just under my chin but not touching the skin. Reflexively, I jerked my head away from the fingers, to my left; he shifted the hand, still not touching me, and I twitched back to the right. He dropped the hand, almost but not quite brushing my body as it lowered, and I drew up straighter. He was playing me, like a puppet.  
  
I could see the amusement in his face, but it faded into something else as he took one long, carefully measured step, and then he was alongside of me. My eyes darted over toward him, but he took another step, and another, and then he was on my other side.   
  
"What--what are you doing?" I stammered, fingers squeezing into fists at my sides. Probably not the proper way for a piece of fluff to address a warlord, but I was nervous.  
  
"Examining the artwork that the Emperor collects." Another long step, and he was back in front of me, glacially composed, chin inclined a fraction to the right. "Wondering what I could learn from you. What you could tell me about him. Is he bordering on insanity, or more canny than any of us realize? What are his thoughts, his vision, his goal . . . though I suppose that one is fairly obvious," his voice took on a dry tone. His eyes remained unblinking, and he seemed to lean forward. "What are his limitations."  
  
"Well I don't--I don't think I could tell you anything," I licked my lips, risking a glance about my surroundings. It was always said the Emperor had a supernatural ability to know exactly who was saying what about him, and discussing his sanity and limitations right outside the inner court didn't sound like a healthy plan to me. Maybe this Thrawn really was nothing more than some crazy alien.   
  
And yet, my eyes were steadily drawn back to him, my ears perked for more words.  
  
He was still looking at me, studying me, probing me with searching, simmering eyes. Perhaps he found what he was looking for, because he drew back and folded his hands, gazing at me almost sadly. "Just remember that everything has a part in the universe," he chided me gently, his expression looking distant and very alien. "Even if its part seems insignificant, living only to serve as example or inspiration." And then, after one sweeping glance, he left me.  
  
I watched him go. I knew now, that most of the rumours were probably true. I could see now, why the Emperor had him out in the Unknown Regions, battling barbaric but faraway worlds. He was dangerous, this Warlord Thrawn. He was the kind of leader soldiers would follow anywhere, do anything for. Not out of fear, as they did for the Emperor; but out of awe and respect and devotion. Perhaps I would follow him.  
  
The idea excited me.  
  
He saw limitations in the Emperor. He saw near-insanity the old man's power-hungry paranoia. He saw him as someone who wouldn't last.   
  
Perhaps someday Thrawn would be Emperor, be the leader everyone looked to, would be the political and military ruler of the Empire. That, I thought, was something to live for.  
  
I hurried out of the corridor, back to my quarters, eagerly awaiting the chance to tell the other girls about the enigmatic alien warlord I had just met, the man called Thrawn.  
  
**~||~**  
  
_The thin shadow slid into the antechamber, movements that of a coiled spring, steel grey hand turned over and fingers folding into a fist when it reached out of the sleeve. "It is done," hissed the shadow, a voice like gravel. "She is no more."  
  
The figure it was speaking to was stationary, looking like an empty, piled black robe sitting on a polished sable throne, sleeves draped over the armrests in a deceptively casual posture. The robe stirred, the hood lifted, and words came through, half muffled by the cowl. "Let that," said the Emperor. "Serve as a warning to him."  
_  
  
  
  
**The End**  
  
  
  
  
  
[Author's Note: Someone asked why a Noghri was the executioner, so I thought I'd answer. The Noghri were given under Thrawn's command, and what better way could the Emp. let Thrawn know who's really boss than to use one of his own servants for the dirty deed? 3 cheers for the Empire!]  
  



End file.
